non sum qualis eram
by Queen Edmund Pevensie
Summary: "A horrendous trial of the flesh…" Anakin has never been in this much pain before in his life. "He's not ready, Obi-Wan. You said it yourself…" He remembers a time from when he was little. His mother's hands – rough and callused but soft against his face. If he concentrates hard enough he can remember her smell. Warm, sharp, like the desert and the spices she used in Watto's foo


The lights are dim in the medbay on the Jedi Cruiser where Anakin is writhing in pain, and Obi-Wan and Padme watch. They are surrounded, of course, by Jedi and clones – the lucky ones who made it off Geonosis. Padme stands out among them, her hair still miraculously pinned up, and her bandaged ribs are covered not by a hospital gown but by one of her own elaborate dresses. She is, at this moment, speaking with Chancellor Palpatine. Healers and medics throw her dirty looks, but she ignores them, anger crystallizing in her eyes. Obi-Wan can at least appreciate Anakin's crush – Padme's spirit, her resilience. Chancellor Palpatine is expressing his saccharine gratitude for Padme's efforts and her safety, but the senator will not give way. She returned to Coruscant to oppose the Military Creation Act, and she is making it very clear to the Chancellor, and anyone else in the room who is at least semi-conscious, that she will oppose the war until her last breath.

"I am glad you are safe, nevertheless, Senator Amidala," says the Chancellor with a sigh. "I grieve for the loss of lives, but it seems war is inevitable. At least now that Count Dooku has been revealed as a villain, the threat on your life seems to have disappeared."

"Now that we have an army, you mean, and Dooku has been exposed," she says, her voice ice.

The hologram flickers, but Palpatine's expression is motionless. "I cannot wait to see you," Palpatine continues placidly. "_And_ young Skywalker alive and well back home."

"And you, Your Excellency," says Padme, with a curt incline of her head, cutting off the transmission. The Chancellor's hologram flickers once more and disappears. Padme heaves a sigh and turns her attention back to Anakin, whose brow is furrowed in pain.

Obi-Wan huffs a laugh at Padme's exasperation. The Chancellor has always been more eager than he's let on for any chance to solidify is power. Even if Anakin likes him, it's clear that Padme can see through much of his politic veneer of grief.

"Will he be okay?" Padme asks, and though her tone is still edged with steel, she doe seem to be concerned with Anakin's well-being. "Can't they do something for him?"

"He'll be fine," Obi-Wan assures her. "The healers will come by soon and administer painkillers once they realize the healing trance isn't working. There's little else we can do if we want the prosthetic to work."

Padme nods gravely and grabs Anakin's hand, squeezing it softly.

"Are you alright, Senator?" Obi wan presses, notice the heavy set of her shoulders, the dark cloud surrounding her. Padme is hard to read; her mind is strong, hard to manipulate or penetrate, but she's not Force Sensitive, so he can only rely on body-language and the faintest impressions of her feelings, her intentions. "You took quite the fall," he adds.

"I've had worse," she insists, soothing Anakin with the soft caress of her hand on his. "And you, Master Kenobi?"

"I've had much worse," Obi-Wan echoes. The ache in his ribs is subsiding by the minute. "At least we've all made it out alive, more or less." His last mission with Senator Amidala ended in the death of his master. He'd give both of his arms to bring Qui-Gon back. Maybe he's arrogant to believe that Anakin feels the same towards him. Perhaps he's simply trying make himself feel less like a failure for Anakin's injury.

"Master Kenobi," calls a voice from behind him. They both turn, Obi-Wan and the Senator. Mace Windu stands in the entryway, serious and grave as ever. Obi-Wan thinks he can remember a time when he smiled, laughed even, but that was a long time ago, when Qui-Gon was still alive. Before the Force felt so dark and heavy around them all. "Senator Amidala," he says, bowing to her curtly, as if he is surprised to see her. "I am glad to see you well." Padme smiles. "I need to speak to Master Kenobi privately, if that's all right with you, Senator."

"Of course, Master Jedi," Padme says respectfully, the way everyone but Anakin speaks to a Jedi Master, the way everyone but Anakin knows that Master Windu has earned. She begins to rise from her seat, but Master Windu motions for her to stay put, and for Obi-Wan to follow him from medbay.

They stand just outside, and Obi-Wan takes a deep, steadying breath, releasing his anxieties into the Force. He imagines them floating away and he feels calmer. He looks Master Windu in the eye. Master Windu smiles. "Relax, Obi-Wan, you aren't in any trouble. This is about your Padawan."

Obi-Wan huffs a laugh at the thought that that sentence could help him relax. "That's what I'm afraid of," he says dryly.

Master Windu nods knowingly. "Padawan's do have a way of challenging us, revealing our greatest strengths and weaknesses to us, don't they?"

"Anakin certainly has, Master," Obi-Wan agrees warily. What in the world could Anakin have done that has sent Mace Windu down here to scold him, besides disobeying direct orders to stay first on Naboo, then on Tatooine, then finally, to believe he was powerful enough to take on a Sith Lord and former Jedi Master and lose an arm for his troubles? Obi-Wan swallows. The last few weeks have been tough, but what the Council sees is not all that Anakin is. "But he is a promising young Jedi," Obi-Wan assures him, desperate to defend Anakin, who cannot be here to defend himself.

"The Council agrees," says Master Windu. Obi-Wan's heart jumps. He looks up at Master Windu, trying to hide his surprise. "And we believe Anakin is ready to be Knighted."

"He's not ready for the Trials," Obi-Wan blurts out. "He has much to learn."

Windu hums thoughtfully. "Do you really feel this way, Master Kenobi?" he asks. "That Skywalker is not ready to become a Jedi."

Obi-Wan's cheeks burn with embarrassment, but he clears his throat and tries to collect himself. "I do not mean to question the Council's wisdom, and Anakin is an immensely skilled young man, and his power grows every day, but he is young. I fear he would not pass all of the Trials. The…the Trial of the Spirit may –"

Master Windu smiles sheepishly and bows his head in thanks. "You're opinion is valued, Master Kenobi," he says. "We would never proceed without consulting you and your Padawan. And you will be comforted to hear, perhaps, that you share the majority of the Council's opinion." Obi-Wan is _not _comforted. He is, in fact, growing more confused by the second. "Master Yoda has suggested that he skip the Trials."

"Skip the Trials?" Obi-Wan echoes. His mouth his dry from slack. "Why?" He had known Anakin would be made a Jedi soon, the next year or so. He and the Council had spoken about it frequently, recently. He was reaching the end of his apprenticeship, and there was little else Obi-Wan could teach him, but Anakin was not yet twenty standard years of age. Emotionally, spiritually, he was not ready for the responsibilities of being a Jedi, and he had not spoken seriously of wanting to take the Trials, the first sign a young Jedi was ready.

"The Chancellor wants to give each Jedi knight a command in this war," Master windu says, something dark glinting in his eyes. Even with how shrouded the future is around them, Obi-Wan can tell that Windu is seeing the many paths unfolding, spiraling out from this point, the question they are both afraid for him to ask. "He believes, and the Council agrees, that Anakin is ready to handle such a responsibility." It is _The Council_, not _Mace Windu_, who speaks now. That much is clear to Obi-Wan.

"And I am sure he will do well," Obi-Wan muses. His personal politics colliding into him from all sides. The matter seems made up, and Obi-Wan knows that his relationship with Anakin, his feelings towards the boy, may be overshadowing the truth that he is ready for such a responsibility. More responsibility than Obi-Wan or any other Jedi has ever had at his age, more responsibility than Obi-Wan has had yet. He swallows hard. He cannot hold onto Anakin forever, and that is what he is doing, standing here, stalling. "It's just unexpected. So soon." Master Windu nods, but says nothing more. "I am proud of him," Obi-Wan sighs, accepts, at last, letting this part of his life go. "He is ready."

"_A horrendous trial of the flesh…" _

Anakin has never been in this much pain before in his life.

"_He's not ready, Obi-Wan. You said it yourself…" _

He remembers a time from when he was little. His mother's hands – rough and callused but soft against his face. If he concentrates hard enough he can remember her smell. Warm, sharp, like the desert and the spices she used in Watto's food.

"_Are we to trust him with a command but not trust him as a Jedi?" _

But the pain is too much. It's everywhere. It's the only things that's real. Pulsing and warm and cold and sharp and heavy and light. He wants – he needs it to stop. Please. It's the only thing that's real. It feels so unreal.

"_We do trust him, Master Kenobi, but the Trials are important." _

He wishes his mother was here. She would be able to make it stop. But she's not here. She's on Tatooine. And he's on Coruscant. He has been for ten years. Ten years without seeing his mother, without hearing her say his name.

"_I know that, but –"_

"Gentleman." A clear voice cuts through the fog of pain. "Take this conversation elsewhere." A scuffling and the pain fades for a fraction of a second before he is swallowed by blackness.

Obi-Wan's face swims before him, creased with worry. His hair is shorter, though still a little shaggy, his robes wrinkled like he's been sitting in the chair beside Anakin's bed for days. Anakin pushes himself up, his head heavy with whatever pain medication they still have him on, as he tries to make sense of what is happening. It's strange that he's still so groggy, that he's been injured badly enough that a quick soak in the bacta tank didn't patch him up. Beneath the fog, his ribs still ache, his skin tingles.

"Anakin, you're awake," Obi-Wan breathes, shifting forward in his seat. "How are you feeling?"

"Bad," Anakin says, trying to put his head in his hands, rub his eyes, anything to try to clear away some of this brain fog that's making it so hard for him to think – to remember. He stares at the stub of his right arm, his throat constricting, as the last few days come flooding back to him.

Obi-Wan must sense the shift in his mood. "You must still be in a lot of pain, Anakin," he says, taking Anakin's left hand – his only hand – in his. "They can't overexpose you to bacta, or else they won't be able to attach the prosthetic." Anakin can't stop staring at the place where his hand used to be. His dominant hand. The hand he learned to wield a lightsaber, to write his name. "They were waiting for you to wake up, but the surgery is scheduled tomorrow morning, once all the parts are in."

"I'm sorry," Anakin says, before he can stop himself. Interrupting Obi-Wan before he can say another thing about the cybernetic hand (_It's made of durasteel, stronger than bone, and it's supposed to be a natural as the organic one. They assure me that – after the adjustment period – you won't even know the difference_). The duel with Dooku, gone horribly wrong. He'd not only lost his hand, but he'd put Obi-Wan in danger. "Master, I'm sorry. I was brash and foolish. I almost got you killed."

"You have nothing to apologize for, Anakin," Obi-Wan says. His voice is low, reassuring, convincing Anakin that there is definitely something wrong. Something is very, very wrong, or else Obi-Wan would be yelling at him, scolding him. "In spite of your…foolishness you have behaved admirably. And I wanted to thank you."

"What for?"

"For coming to rescue me." Obi-Wan smiles at him. "Senator Amidala assures me it was her idea." He chuckles, but Anakin can't bring himself to even smile. Obi-Wan is being warm, forgiving, now that they're out of immediate danger. "So the Council has decided to forgive the offense of disobeying direct orders. As Padme pointed out – you're first mandate was to protect her, which you couldn't very well do on Tatooine."

Anakin manages a smile too, but he feels hollow, terribly awfully cold and hollow. Cut off from the Force, still painfully aware of the stub of his arm. "I feel…wrong…" he says dully. Obi-Wan frowns and leans forward to inspect Anakin more closely.

"That is probably the pain killers," Obi-Wan muses. "The healers have you on a pretty high dose, when the healing trance wouldn't take." Anakin shakes his head; he doesn't remember, and he can't focus. "It's why you're groggy, and it's cut you off from the Force slightly. Don't panic. It will come back."

"Hmmpf."

"Anakin." Obi-Wan is still staring at him, looking right through him. "You did well. No one blames you for what happened on Geonosis. Or on Tatooine."

"_Tatooine?" _Anakin wracks his brain, trying to remember what happened on Tatooine. He remembers going, being there in the suns again. His mother's new family. Going to find her, leaving Tatooine to come to another desert, the sand and dust red instead of golden, but all the same – hot and dry, desolate. But what happened in the meantime is blank – empty…hollow. It's not just the absence of the Force. Something happened on Tatooine, but when he reaches for it, there's nothing there but fear, grief. "Obi-Wan…" he's choking on the dust, reaching out for his master. Obi-Wan grabs his shoulders to steady him, but his vision is swimming; all he can see are the dunes of Tatooine, where he last saw his mother. "_Why can't I remember?_"

"_Breathe, Anakin." _Obi-Wan takes his hand and squeezes. Calm radiates from Obi-Wan but it cannot penetrate Anakin's panic; Obi-Wan's calmness is manufactured, the edge of his concern biting, feeding into Anakin's own. They lock eyes, Obi-Wan doubling down on his efforts to calm himself and Anakin, just like when Anakin was younger. "It will come back, Anakin," he says softly, squeezing his hand tighter. "It will hurt, but you will remember, and you will be okay. But you need to relax."

Anakin takes a deep, shuddering breath, a gulping swallow of air, but he cannot quiet his mind. He cannot breathe. Obi-Wan will not let go of his hand. Slowly, his memories start to come back, not like the way he remembers memories from his childhood, worse, more vivid. As if it's happening again. His mother's family – Cliegg, Owen and his girlfriend with the slaves' name, their quiet life out on the homestead; twisting, terrible grief at the time he lost with his mother, taken by these people, _strangers_, treating him like family, but they didn't know, didn't understand who she was, the past she and Anakin shared, pretending they were her family.

The desert swims before his eyes, the setting suns behind him as he moves, following his mother's weakening Force signature, the traces of her sending him deeper into it until he finds them, a Tusken encampment, settled down for the night, the suns only an hour from rising again. His mother's presence announcing itself in the sudden, easy clarity of mind, but he hurts – her pain, her loss, her fear; he's nauseous with it. So he shuts that part of himself down, makes himself numb to her pain, powers down his lightsaber so he can catch his mother in his arms. She looks the same, if weak; he breathes for the first time in ten years.

"My grown up son," she sighs, her voice weak, her hand feather-light against his face, the same comforting motion he remembers from when he was a child. He leans into it, but Shmi is falling away. Clinging to life, but barely. But Anakin can't let her die. He's here. He's here, Mom, it's okay, she's safe now, but Shmi isn't listening, slipping away.

"Mom?" His voice breaks.

Her eyes clear for a second. "Anakin," she says, in the way only she can, in the only voice that sounded like his own name. "I love…" but her voice dies a moment before she does, her hand drops away from his face, and no matter how much Anakin tries to block out the Force, keep all of it out, insulate himself from the world, his mother, he can feel the world without his mother. Not far away, not asleep or wounded. Dead, gone, forever. No future with his mother, no future for Shmi Skywalker at all.

Anger, anger at Obi-Wan for keeping him from his mother, the Lars' for keeping her from him, at Watto, and the Tuskens, and Padme, and himself. His heart is swallowed by the anger; he's burning with it; opens himself back up to the Force, the Tuskens' anger and hate and fear – fear of him, fear of –

He remembers this part. He yanks his hand out of Obi-Wan's and snarls. "Get out of my head."

Obi-Wan is white as a sheet, like he's going to be sick, but Obi-Wan isn't the one who held Shmi as she died, isn't the one who tasted the fear of the Sand People as they died, didn't go back, take that hatred and let it bear him back to the Homestead, and wrap his mother and bury her. Obi-Wan can't understand this loss, this loss, this unhealable, open, raw wound, a tear in the Force that will never be patched.

"Oh, Anakin." Obi-Wan's voice is a low, strangled, sigh, and his sympathy is more suffocating than the anger that possessed him on Tatooine. "Oh, Anakin, I'm so sorry."

That anger flares up again inside of him. This time Obi-Wan is his target, but he doesn't have his lightsaber, or his lightsaber hand, or full capacity of his power, so Obi-Wan is lucky that the only thing that happens is some medical equipment shaking, and a spark, less than static electricity from the tip of Anakin's fingers. Enough that Obi-Wan leaps up in surprise, but not enough that Obi-Wan would say anything, or even notice.

"It's your fault!" Anakin growls. "Your fault my mother is dead! If it wasn't for you, she'd still be alive!"

Obi-Wan stares at him, rigid. Afraid perhaps. Good, let him feel a fraction of the fear that Anakin has felt the last few weeks, not knowing, anticipating the worst, holding it in his arms for a fraction of a second before the world collapsed in his hands. A mercy when he forgot, and Obi-Wan brought it all back. If only Obi-Wan had believed him, if only Anakin had a better master – Qui-Gon Jinn, he would have been able to save his mother, instead of feeling what it really meant to be alive seep from her body.

"Anakin, I'm sorry," Obi-Wan begs. His sorrow, grief, pain seeps into the floor, but the open wound in the Force that was Shmi Skywalker receives it willing, happily. "I'm so sorry about your mother."

"No you aren't!" he shouts, a wild, insane thrill coursing through him, through his mother's emptiness. Obi-Wan backs away from him, Anakin's muddled world becoming clearer, sharper, the haze from the pain relievers slipping away. "You aren't sorry! You killed her! I hate you!"

It feels good to scream, though it turns heads. Obi-Wan's brow is folded in a funny shape, like he was concerned, not sad or scared anymore, just worried. Obi-Wan never treats him any more than a problem needing to be solved. He doesn't care that his mother is dead, only cares that Anakin is causing a scene. He'd tell him, too, gearing up for another round, if one of the healers didn't stab something into his arm, and the fog came flooding back to him, faster than it slipped away.

"You've only delayed the inevitable," he hears Obi-Wan comment wearily, as he drifts back into sleep.

Anakin stares blankly at Obi-Wan, flexing his new mech-hand experimentally. "Are you in any pain?" he asks. Anakin shakes his head, closing his fist. "That's good," Obi-Wan says, relaxing marginally. "Patients sometimes have trouble adjusting to these new prosthetics. They're quite complicated, a bit experimental, but usually effective, and seamless, after some physical therapy. I'm sure you'll do fine, Anakin." Anakin says nothing. Obi-Wan knows he is rambling somewhat uncharacteristically, trying to assuage some fear in Anakin that has yet to present itself. Since his outburst earlier, in his waking moments he has been quiet, withdrawn. It worries him more than Anakin's explosive moods ever could. At least now, he seems intrigued by the technology, if unwilling to share his thoughts with Obi-Wan.

None of the healers seems overly concerned about it either way, even, or especially, the ones who know him best. He's on pain relievers still, so it at least accounts for the subdued mood. Still – Obi-Wan shifts uncomfortably in his seat by Anakin's bedside. An undisciplined, un-Jedi-like expression of his anxiety. He wishes Anakin was more alert for this news, but Obi-Wan wants to be the one to tell him before the Council. With everything that's happened in the last few days, he knows he should be the one to do it. At least, Obi-Wan will be there when Anakin is knighted, they'll do the Ceremony properly, regardless of the reasons, the pressure to knight Padawans before they are ready, younger than any knight ever.

"What's wrong, Master?" Anakin asks hoarsely, his eyes fixed on Obi-Wan. Vacant. Distant. Somehow still keen, discerning. A thousand situations running through his mind already.

Obi-Wan sighs, ready to stop Anakin's spiral. "The Council believes you are ready to take the Trials," Obi-Wan says. "They want to make you a Jedi Knight."

The silence is heavy as Anakin tries to process what Obi-Wan has told him. He can almost hear the wheels of Anakin's mind turning, his shoulders tense with how hard he's trying to keep his hope in check. "Really?" he grunts. "They think I'm ready?"

"Yes," Obi-Wan says. "But you don't have to, Anakin. They need knights for command, but you aren't obligated to do either."

Anakin tenses even more. This time, Obi-Wan does hear gears working; Anakin's hand is clenched so hard, the gears grind against one another. "You don't think I'm ready?" His voice is steel edged and indignant.

"No," Obi-Wan says, already feeling like he's backtracking, fighting a losing battle. "You are a great Jedi, but you shouldn't feel pressured."

"Why would I feel pressure? I'm ready!" His voice raises a few decibels, attracting glances from the other patients in the Halls of Healing.

"Anakin, this isn't about whether you are good Jedi, or whether you are ready, this is about your feelings." How did he lose control of this conversation so quickly?

"I know what I feel, Obi-Wan. I feel like I want to be a Jedi, and for some reason, you're still holding me back!"

Obi-Wan sighs in frustration. This is the reaction Obi-Wan was afraid of. Perhaps not this specific reaction, but something, especially so soon – so soon after he lost his mother, and his hand. Another change, and one Anakin has earned, one he wants, one Obi-Wan can tell Anakin is uncertain whether he deserves.

"Listen to me, Anakin," Obi-Wan says, setting his face as stern as he can, calming his emotions, knowing Anakin can and will feed off of them. A hard lesson to learn during his teen years. A hard lesson for all master to learn. And Obi-Wan learned all that a master could from a Padawan, and taught Anakin everything he knew – except this last one: letting him go. "An important part of becoming a Jedi is wanting it. You are extremely skilled and extraordinarily brave." Anakin won't meet his eyes. "One day you will be a Jedi and a Jedi Master, but you are only nineteen years old. And the only reason the Council approached me is because they need Jedi Knights to lead the clones."

"The _Council_ doesn't think I'm ready?" he growls, darkening in the Force.

Obi-Wan's head begins to pound in frustration. "Perhaps we should discuss this later," he tries. "When you're calmer."

"_I am calm!"_ Anakin insists, sitting up straighter in bed. "Tell me what you mean, because it seems from where I'm sitting that _someone_ doesn't think I'm ready."

"Becoming a Jedi is a serious responsibility," Obi-Wan continues slowly, knowing that one wrong word will set Anakin off, will derail the entire conversation. "The Council and I both believe that you are ready for that responsibility. Your skills are far beyond those of your peers and you are good Jedi, but I fear –"

"What?" Anakin snaps.

Obi-Wan sighs. "I fear the Council is receiving pressure from the Senate for more Jedi, and they are rushing you into a position _you_ don't think you're ready for."

"I am ready, Master," Anakin says seriously. "I promise I won't let you down."

Obi-Wan stands before the Council, Anakin by his side, rod straight, vibrating with anxiety. Today, the Council is letting Anakin know the date of his Trials, and in spite of his insistence that he is ready, the uncertainty is clear. Obi-Wan remembers this from his own Trials. On the recommendation of his Master and to honor Qui-Gon, Obi-Wan was allowed to attempt the Trials, and Obi-Wan, who had recently become the first Jedi in a millennia to kill a Sith and who had been badgering Qui-Gon for weeks that he was ready, was quaking in his boots, suddenly unsure if he ever would be.

"Anakin Skywalker," Mace Windu intones. "The Council has deliberated and consulted with your master, Obi-Wan Kenobi, and we have determined that you have completed your training as a Padawan, and you are ready to receive the rank of Jedi Knight."

Anakin nods, straighten his shoulders even more. "Thank you, Masters."

Master Windu turns his attention to Obi-Wan. "Master Kenobi," he says. "Do you believe your Padawan, Anakin Skywalker, is ready for the rank of Jedi Knight, and that you have taught him to the best of your ability?"

"Anakin is ready, Masters," Obi-Wan says. It's the first time he finds that he believes it. "He has faced more than many Jedi and has always behaved honorably."

Master Windu nods. Jedi Master Plo Koon clears his throat. "Padawan Skywalker," he says. "Is there any reason for you to think that you are not ready?"

"No Masters, I am ready to take the Trials," he says stiffly.

Yoda nods, smiles. Obi-Wan frowns. Something is out of place, a future unfolding in front of them that is different than what they had anticipated. When they discussed Anakin skipping the Trials, it had been some of them, a select few, or just a hypothetical. A situation they would all talk about and tell Anakin about together, not spring on the two of them at this point in the process. "Your Ceremony will be the day after tomorrow," Yoda says simply. "Congratulations, Young Skywalker."

Anakin gapes at him, his mouth bobbing open and closed, as he tries to put together the pieces of Yoda's announcement. "But – but…" Anakin inhales sharply to gather himself and straightens his shoulders. "Masters," he says. "Thank you. But – what about the Trials?"

"The Jedi Trials are an important step in becoming a Jedi" Master Windu confirms using his most formal voice, as he often does with Anakin. "But they are not necessary. When the council believes appropriate, they can waive the Trials. As in your case. You have proved yourself capable and worthy of the Jedi Rank. Congratulations." There is something very final in Windu's final word.

Anakin nods stiffly and thanks them again, stuffing his hands into his robe.

"Another question you have, Padawan?" Yoda wonders.

"Uhh," Anakin stutters. "Yes. Are you sure?" He shrinks further into his robes.

Master Windu frowns, but Yoda smiles. "The Trial of Courage and Skill you have passed in your rescue of your master on Geonosis and duel with Count Dooku." Anakin blushes, the very tips of his ears turning a deep red. "The loss of your hand is a horrendous Trial of the Flesh. In all of these trials, you have behaved admirably. To waive the official Trials, the Council has decided."

"But that leaves two."

"Do you believe that you are not ready to be a Jedi, Skywalker?" Master Windu asks. Anakin scowls at him, and as much as Obi-Wan doesn't want to have this argument again, he can tell – even if Anakin cannot – that Master Windu is amused by Anakin's sudden eagerness to take a test, and he, too, cannot help but smirk. Anakin sees him and his scowl deepens.

"That's not what I said," he snaps, trying, and mostly failing, to keep the edge out of his voice. "But if you're waiving my Trial because you believe I've already been tested, I haven't been given the last two. The Trial of the Spirit, and the Trial of Insight."

"Afraid you won't pass?" Master Windu is valiantly trying not to laugh.

Anakin's obstinance is getting the better of him. Of all the battles they believed they would have to fight with him, this was certainly not one of them.

"No!" Anakin insists. "But –!"

"Anakin," Obi-Wan interrupts. He lays a hand on Anakin's shoulder to steady him. "I have shared with the Council how you have been dreaming of your mother and her subsequent death." Anakin stiffens again, the temperature in the room plummets. "They have agreed that this has fulfilled the final two Trials, but even if we didn't, we have all agreed that you have faced more than many Jedi Masters, and you are ready to take on the responsibilities of becoming a Jedi Knight."

"I understand," Anakin says at last, his voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you, Masters." He bows, tucking his head and clutching at the inside of his robes. He turns on his heel and leaves Obi-Wan standing alone in the Center of the Council Chambers.

"I guess you were right about not bringing up the loss of his mother," says Mace Windu dryly. "In your opinion, Obi-Wan, should we be concerned?"

"No." Obi-Wan clenches his jaw tightly. "It is hard for us to understand his grief," he concedes. "But he is strong. And he will let us know if…" Obi-Wans swallows an unpleasant pall suddenly settling over him through the Chamber. "If he needs our help, the way he has always done. We must give him time."

"Agreed, I am," Master Yoda says lightly. "A difficult thing, grief is, but a part of life." Yoda hums thoughtfully, the way he does when he sees something the rest of them cannot yet. "You are dismissed, Master Kenobi," he says, hopping down from his chair. "Walk with me, will you?"

"Oh," Obi-Wan exclaims. He bows clumsily to the rest of the Council. "Of course, Master." He follows Yoda out of the chamber, lagging back a few paces.

"Difficult times, these are," Yoda hums again. "In mourning are we, for the sacrifice of our ideals for peace, for the destruction that has yet to occur, and for our Fallen Jedi." The only sounds in the hall are those of Yoda's shuffling feet, his robes swishing against the ground, the soft thud of Obi-Wan's boots. "Shoes to be filled, there are." Yoda stops and grunts. "Big shoes. Masters stepping down from their positions on the Council in the face of this war. Courage we need in this difficult time."

"Yes, Master," Obi-Wan agrees, uncertain and uncomfortable with the direction of the conversation.

"Your Padawan not the only one who is ready to move ahead," Yoda continues.

"I don't understand, Master Yoda." Obi-Wan flushes. "What are you saying?"

Yoda laughs, throaty and light. "Humility, Master Obi-Wan? Thought better of you, I did."

Obi-Wan blushes deeper. "You want to make me a master?" he stutters. "I'm – I'm not ready."

"You are," Yoda says firmly. "And ready for more, you are."

Obi-Wan's heart leaps. "More, Master?" he chokes.

"A seat on the council," Yoda explains. Obi-Wan stops, stunned. Perhaps this is how Anakin felt just moments ago, like the rug had been pulled out from under him.

"I'm flattered, of course, Master, but certainly –"

"Not meant to flatter this position is," Yoda says sternly. "As for other Jedi, older, more experience Jedi, you the Council has chosen, not any of them. Your wisdom and experience the Jedi need."

"Of course, Master," Obi-Wan bows his head, blushing, humbled by the responsibility, the war, on his shoulders. He won't be the youngest member to sit on the Council, but Obi-Wan certainly could be flattering himself if he believed he was half the Jedi as Mace Windu. Many Jedi his own age have achieved the rank of Master already, some perhaps ready to sit on the Council. In the last few weeks, the rumblings about older Masters stepping down, unwilling to lead the Order into war – and Obi-Wan is young, smart, at the center of this mystery, and –

"Do you want me to spy on Anakin?" The words leave his mouth almost as soon as the thought forms. Obi-Wan blushes, embarrassed. "Forgive me, Master." Obi-Wan's words are falling faster from his lips than he can think them. Presumptuous, ungrateful, probably at least partially correct. "Anakin can take care of himself, and I take the responsibility seriously," he adds hastily, anyway.

Yoda just chuckles. "Perhaps the Council believes young Skywalker needs an ally on the Council," he humphs. "If the Chosen One he is. But report on him you will not. No longer your responsibility Young Skywalker is." Obi-Wan nods, the future suddenly completely uncertain. He takes a deep, steadying breath, lets go of his iron grip on Anakin, on his future. He trusts in the Force. He will let his path unfold in front of him, let it lead him, let it guide him.

"Thank you, Master Yoda," Obi-Wan says, inclining his head, gratitude warming him. "I will accept this responsibility."

Yoda smiles. "The way you have all else in your life, _Master_ Kenobi."

Anakin is fidgeting outside the Council Chamber, his mech-hand tugging on the end of his Padawan braid. This tick is unusual, though the fidgeting itself is not; Anakin distracts many of his peers with incessant foot tapping, leg shaking, finger drumming noise. Over the years, Obi-Wan received complaints and reprimands for his Padawan's complete inability to sit still, but no matter how many times Obi-Wan tried to explain that Anakin was a child, raised outside of the Temple and being asked to perform above younglings his own age in the Temple, and they were working towards it – quiet mind, quiet body – the Council still complained of Anakin's comportment, and young Jedi made snide comments about where Anakin really belonged. He's never played with his hair, though. Obi-Wan lets it go; it's just nerves. To let go of his position, this stage of his life. Exciting, well-earned, but terrifying nonetheless, and with everything else that has happened to him in the last few weeks, he deserves to fidget.

The Council doors open slowly. They're among the only doors on hinges on Coruscant and Obi-Wan sometimes thinks uncharitably that the Council keeps them for the drama of it. Of course, it is the older part of the Temple, and in a thousand years it has hardly been touched, but as the doors swing inward with a heavy groan, illuminating a sliver of the council Chamber by the dim hall lights, Obi-Wan thinks they might be partial to drama. "Anakin Skywalker," a voice booms from within. Anakin looks up at Obi-Wan and drops his hands.

"After you," Obi-Wan says.

Anakin nods stiffly and enters his shoulders drawn tightly together, his face drained of color. Obi-Wan follows, finally let his pride, his love, for Anakin flood into him for a few seconds before letting it go, hoping Anakin can feel some of it. They stop in the center of the Chamber. The lights are low, the shades are drawn, the way they were during Obi-Wan's own unhappy knighting ceremony. Whatever has come before, whatever comes after, this day will be a good one for Anakin, a day he know he's earned, and one they share, as master and apprentice are meant to. "Obi-Wan Kenobi," says Mace Windu's grave and solemn voice from the shadows. "Do you believe your Padawan, Anakin Skywalker, is ready to become a Jedi Knight?"

"Yes, Master."

"Do you believe that he has proved himself in the ways customary to the Jedi Knights?"

"Yes, Master."

"In the Trial of the Flesh, in the Trial of the Skill, in the Trial of Courage, in the Trial of Spirit, in the Trial of Insight?"

"Yes, Master."

"Master Kenobi, ignite your lightsaber." He does and the council turns to Anakin. The room hums in the soft light of a dozen lightsabers. They instruct Anakin to kneel, and Anakin does so. Obi-Wan approaches from behind and they take a moment – their last together, as master and apprentice – to feel their connection and to let it go. Obi-Wan moves swiftly and deftly, and Anakin's Padawan braid falls to the ground.


End file.
